


This Love (Will Make Us Worthy)

by luninosity, significantowl



Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Newly established relationship, Nudity, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sexual Content, Talking, porn with emotions, sexy application of tanning lotion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the filming of <i>Trance</i>, Michael discovers the bottle of tanning lotion on James' bathroom counter that he uses for nude scenes on-screen - and off.  Cue important conversations in a still-new relationship, and Michael helping James with the lotion in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Love (Will Make Us Worthy)

**Author's Note:**

> This story happened because of this James quote - ["A bit of the old St Tropez. I need to tan myself up so I don't blind people with my paleness because I am milk bottle white below the neck.'](james-mcavoy-i-tan-myself-up-with-st-tropez-before-going-naked-on-screen-i-m-milk-bottle-white) \- it inspired in us feelings, and porn ;)
> 
> Title from Tegan & Sara's "Love They Say."

Michael stares at the bottle. The bottle, all innocuous white and black simplicity, stares back at him.

He reads the words again, extra-slowly. He’s not the best reader in any case, normally. Too impatient. Might’ve misunderstood something. It’s possible.

St Tropez, announces the label. For a rich, deep, natural-looking tan! With beautiful glow!

Okay. Not a misunderstanding, then. He stands in the lavish hotel bathroom amid fluffy white towels and rather gaudy golden knobs--James’ director’s sparing no expense for comfort--and feels his bare toes get a little colder on the tile. It’s still August, but it’s a chilly August, icy sunlight and brittle gusts of wind along London streets and backlots. A fragile summer, under siege.

And James has...tanning lotion. James has tanning lotion, left out here on the sink’s edge because James hadn’t tidied up; because James hadn’t known Michael was coming, because Michael’d wanted this to be a surprise. Had wanted to see blue eyes sparkle, that sheer elation echoed in his own heart. Newborn, three weeks and two days old, and every second a breathless discovery. Sudden smiles, hands meeting hands, lips and breath over bare skin. The tingle down his spine when James kisses him in a bookshop or holds his hand on set, elated and unashamed and in love.

Why does James have tanning lotion? Can’t be for the character; Michael’s read the script. There is no possible reason that Simon Newton, art auctioneer and adorable psychopath, needs to be tropically tanned.

Another thought kicks his brain, a nudge of not-exactly guilt regarding said script. He doesn’t precisely ignore it, though he doesn’t have room to dwell on it just now. He’s not questioning his decision to drop out of the film. He’d talked that one over with James before he’d gone to the director. James knows why, both the professional and the personal reasons. Michael’s not here because he’s second-guessing himself; he’s here because he wants to see James.

Well. Maybe he’s a little bit here because James has evidently been drinking tequila sunrises with Rosario Dawson, as captured by an enterprising tabloid photographer. Michael’s not exactly jealous--he’s never wanted to be the possessive boyfriend type, and he trusts James with his heart and soul entire--but he does have three days off and a lot of bartending experience and he can certainly make James better cocktails than any random person in a British novelty imitation of a Mexican cantina might. More tailored to his tastes. Better-quality ingredients. Possibly chased by kisses.

He looks at the bottle again. He’s not doing this film, with James. But he is here now. And James is here. And, evidently, self-tanning lotion is here.

If James isn’t doing it for the character…

Michael swallows, very hard. The wind blusters around the window, above the shower; howls once, and fades.

He picks up the bottle, very carefully, and walks back into the bedroom. James, on the phone, head tipped to one side, free hand carving expressive gestures through the air even though his sister can’t see him, says, “Yes, of course, I’ll ask Michael, he’ll know something about decent scotch, and yes, we’ll pick it up in time for Gran’s birthday, I promise, all right, I’ve got to go, I’ll check in later, love you,” and looks up, and sees Michael’s face.

He knows something's upset Michael, but he has no idea what it is. Michael can see that quite clearly in the two deep creases between James' brows, in the sudden darting worry in his eyes. And that makes the whole thing worse, somehow, that even with the bottle visible in Michael’s hand, James doesn’t get it.

“I didn’t realise they’d changed the character bio. Simon.” Michael means it as a soft opening, a way of working up to the real question, but he’s too on edge for _soft_ , and it shows in his voice.

"They haven't?" Wariness, now, mixed in with the confusion. That's Michael's fault.

"I didn't realise he was meant to be tanned," Michael says, more gently. Better. He holds out a tiny bit of hope that there is, in fact, a scripted reason - that Simon is just back from a holiday in Majorca or something - but the confusion on James' face melts away, and self-consciousness creeps in, and there's that hope dashed.

“Not so much tanned, as not a ghostly apparition.” James waves a hand at himself. _Not me,_ he’s saying. And from the deprecating little quirk of his lips, he expects Michael to agree.

Michael does not agree. Michael says, because he can’t not say it, “What?”

“...what?” James says back, now looking surprised at Michael’s surprise. Michael almost says _what_ again, catches himself before they can turn into an Abbott and Costello routine, and changes his question to, “Have you been using this...the whole time?”

He means: the whole time you’ve been shooting this film. The whole time I’ve known you. The whole time I’ve loved you, kissed the back of your neck while you laughed and conjured cream-cakes out of thin air, traced the contours of your hips in moonlight and made love to you on a sun-drenched afternoon as the Beatles played on the radio. You pretended to be annoyed that I’d interrupted your script-reading, and then you kissed me like I’d never been kissed before.

He means: have I never once kissed your skin without you hiding from me?

The wind yelps past the window again. James, poised by the glass in a snug bundle of azure sweater and grey button-down and faded jeans and what’s quite possibly a stolen souvenir pair of Charles Xavier’s fingerless gloves, hesitates.

And Michael’s world turns itself sickeningly inside-out.

James doesn’t hesitate, not ever. James is the heart and soul of any film he’s in, of any group of friends, any gathering. James abducts directorial golf carts and tells terrible off-color superhero jokes and makes sure everyone’s had enough to eat and self-mockingly calls himself the friend who’s the hovering mom of the group-- “y’know, the one who’s going ’round sayin’, have you got a warm enough coat on, did you drink water along with all that whiskey, did you not get any of the coffee on set before they ran out, here, have this one.”

That assessment’s not entirely wrong--Michael’s seen it proven true often enough; hell, has been the recipient of all that affectionate blue-eyed compassion on more than one occasion--but it’s not enough, either. Doesn’t encompass the way that James can smile and get the whole world to smile along, the way that shortness and wayward hair can light up a room just by walking into it, the way that James, by caring for everyone, brings everyone together.

James is fearless and beautiful and wants everyone to be happy, and Michael’s head over heels in awestruck love with him just the way he is, the last three weeks having been the best weeks of Michael’s life, ever, unquestionable, full stop.

And James has been hiding. From him--but not only from him, and that’s another gut-twisting realization. James has been hiding this from everyone.

“Yes,” James says, slowly, and Michael jumps because James is answering his thought, and then remembers that he’s asked a question.

“I’ve…” Blue eyes pause, picking out words. Stepping-stones over thundering heartbeat rapids. “It’s not a big deal, Michael, honestly, I--look, you’ve never seen me without it, all right? Believe me when I say you don’t want to. Spectres. Milk. Paper. All the whiter-than-snow metaphors. Not exactly leading-man material.”

“You...think you’re...not...James, you _have_ leading roles!”

“No, I know, I’m not explaining this well.” James sighs. Sits down on the bed, holds out a hand. After a second, Michael crosses the room and takes it. Eases down beside him, one leg folded up so they can be face to face. The bed’s plushly unobtrusive. Disinclined to disturb them.

“I know I’m not, oh, terrifying to behold.” James taps fingers over the back of Michael’s hand, no discernible rhythm. “I don’t think I’m horror-movie unattractive, as such--”

“Good!”

“--but I’m no Brad Pitt. Or you, for that matter. And that’s fine, I’m fine with that, it’s completely not a problem.” A pause, but Michael’s too busy being horrified to unearth a coherent response. James waits a beat, then keeps talking. “It’s just I have to do some extra work for it, and that’s very much okay, we all do it, c’mon, Hugh’s in the gym twenty-three hours a day and you lost an entire person’s worth of weight for _Hunger_. We do what we have to, we’re actors, I’m not doing anything unhealthy, and I’m okay with it. Does that help? Want the last raspberry shortbread biscuit? I can make more. The hotel chef lets me play in his kitchen, I think he’s impressed I know how to cook, and he’s got a zucchini-bread recipe I want to memorize--anyway, you can have this last one, and we’ll make more tonight after I’m done, okay?”

Michael’s still horrifiedly speechless. James squeezes his hand. Concerned gestures and worried twilight eyes. “Ah...Michael? Still with me?”

“Don’t,” Michael gets out, “don’t--try to take care of me, not right now, James--Christ--” He pulls his hand away. Puts both of them over his face, just for a second, trying to think. His brain’s swirling. And his heart aches. Raspberry shortbread and friendliness and James trying to comfort the world. And, disguised by distractingly sincere offers of food, gaping black-fanged chasms of brittle self-doubt.

Michael’s never seen those chasms before. He’s seeing them now. He’s seeing James now. And he can’t find any words.

“Okay…” James moves to stand up, to get off the bed, to not push if unwanted; Michael doesn’t know a whole lot right now, but he does know that that’s hurt in that Scottish-banner voice, and he doesn’t want James to get up. He drops the hands, reaches out, catches James before he can step away. “Wait. Please. We need to--James, can we talk about this?”

James hesitates again. “I’ve got to be back on set soon. Night scenes...naked night scenes, me in bed, which was sort of why…”

“I know. I won’t get in the way. But I--please sit back down. I want to…” Very careful, picking words the same way James had earlier. Wobbling paths over deep waters. “...understand. Why. When you started this. Did someone sort of...say something to you? Ever?”

James looks at Michael’s face, at Michael’s hands--still too tightly wrapped around his--then at Michael’s face again. Then takes the step back to the bed. Michael puts an arm around his shoulders: thank you, thank you for coming back, for leaning against me the way you are now…

He can feel stray wisps of dark hair, can taste the crisp bright apples and grass of James’ shampoo, when he breathes. His side’s warm where all those sturdy muscles’re tucked in under his arm, and his leg’s beginning to protest the awkward angle, and he never wants to move again.

They’ve got some time. Mandated break before James has to spend the night leaping out of bed and running naked to a window. Why they’re back here in the hotel, sheltered from the wind-chill, secure in thick walls and turned-up heat and this space that’s theirs.

“Yes and no,” James says, and tips his head to rest against Michael’s shoulder. “I mean, yes, but...not the way you’re thinking. Ages ago, one of my first films...so I had to be shirtless quite a lot, and the lighting was...long story short, the director came up to me and told me how much he loved me, everyone loved me, and so they were going to find a way to make things work, my skin and the lighting, and-- You know I’ve never wanted anyone to have to...make things work...because of me. So I’ve been doing this since. My choice.”

The words collide and snarl--too many possible responses--in Michael’s throat. He brings a hand up and strokes James’s hair, sorting through them. James breathes out, a quiet uneven exhale; Michael twines dark waves around fingers, an anchor for them both. “You said...you’ve been doing this since. For years?”

“Well, not continuously.” James seems to relax a hairsbreadth more at the lack of condemnation; Michael inwardly prides himself on having managed the right tone. “I let it go when...if I’m not...if no one’s going to be seeing me naked. It fades if I stop. That’s why I brought it--I knew I’d have to, on this film--and then you were here, this morning, before I could. Surprise.”

Surprise. Yes. He’d knocked on James’s hotel-room door that morning, duffel bag in one hand, cinnamon-raisin bagel and honey-walnut cream cheese and caramel-nut chocolate mocha in the other. James likes sweetness in the mornings.

James had opened the door, stared, flung himself into Michael’s arms. Heedless of curious hotel staff and the drowsy inquisitiveness of fellow cast members welcoming their own room service.

James had kissed him, flavored like sugar and chocolate and honey, worlds away from Michael’s utilitarian black coffee preferences and exactly right. Had smiled while being kissed in return.

Michael’s hands’d slid up under that concealing sweater and traced inquiries across the curve of his waist; James hadn’t flinched, but had tensed, barely noticeable, at the unspoken question. Michael had stopped, and had thought he’d understood: James did have to be on set in twenty minutes, and Michael’s presence was a surprise, and they’d only been together for a few short astonishing weeks.

Maybe James didn’t like surprises, he’d concluded; they were still learning, after all. And just because Michael himself enjoys grand romantic gestures--not overt public displays on street corners, but he might’ve had a few fantasies about sweeping James off for a secretly-arranged romantic weekend getaway at a future date--that doesn’t mean James does.

Maybe they’d figure out a compromise, he’d thought that morning, picking back up and holding out the coffee, an apology. Maybe James might not mind the gestures, if they didn’t come in the form of sudden surprise.

Now he’s thinking he’d not understood at all.

“You’ve never been naked,” he says, very very softly, cautious venture out onto the next stepping-stone, hand safe in James’ hair, “around me, then, have you?”

James shifts weight, sits up enough to look at him. The look in those blue eyes is one Michael’s never seen before: startled, forlorn, hopeful, honest, and above all wanting. “Guess not,” James says, accent hushed as gold, “but I am now.”

“I love you,” Michael says, and that’s the right thing to say, because James smiles a bit, one corner of that mouth tipping up. “I know.”

“James...no Star Wars jokes. Not now--”

“I wasn’t!”

“--good. Will you listen, if I tell you something?”

“I always listen to you.” James holds his gaze; the wind purrs outside. “I love you, too. I couldn’t believe it, when you showed up this morning. If I didn’t say thank you, if I didn’t tell you I loved that, you doing this, being here--I’m saying it now.”

“Happy three week and two day anniversary,” Michael says. “I might’ve also sort of arranged to take you to a sixteenth-century Irish castle for the weekend after you’re done filming. If you, y’know, like surprises. I do want to know what you look like. If you’d be all right with me knowing. Because that’s who you are. And I love you. Can I see?”

“Who I am…” James looks at his hands. They’re bundled into fingerless gloves. Covered up, like the rest of him. The air’s still cold, but that’s not why, or at least not all of why. “I like surprises. I very definitely like castles. You fell in love with the me who doesn’t have any secrets. Who’s not scared of anything. I did know I’d have to tell you. I just kept thinking I could maybe not have to tell you yet.”

“Oh,” Michael says, more a sound than a word, inadvertent, “James, you--I fell in love with _you_. And I want to know, anything you want to tell me, I want to know everything about you, and if you think this makes you any less fantastic then you’re wrong--sorry, but you are--you said you’re scared. I’m here if you’re scared. Please let me be here for you.”

He wants to say more. Wants to say: you’re here for everyone else, always; you love the world so generously; you astonish me every day. Please let me love you back, just for you, please trust me.

James licks his lips. It’s the same motion Michael’s seen a hundred times, a thousand, on camera, during interviews: James thinking, buying time, making up his mind. He waits, heart in his throat.

And James smiles, refocusing. Not a huge smile. Small. Kind of private. Wondering. “You are here.”

“Yes? I mean I am. Yes.”

“All right, then…” With an inhale, squared shoulders, abruptly resolute chin; Michael, hope beginning to catch fire in his chest, is afraid to interrupt, but tries to put every bit of that emotion into his eyes.

James leans in, kisses him squarely on the lips, and then slides off the bed, tosses gloves at a side table--only one makes it--and yanks the sweater off over his head. Then flicks open buttons of the shirt beneath. Loses that too, a puddle of grey and blue on the beige hotel carpet.

Michael’s mouth is bone-dry. James, down to slim-fit body-hugging white undershirt and jeans, pauses, glances up, grins. There’s self-consciousness in that grin, but it’s surrounded by determination and love and desire, and consequently outnumbered. “Enjoying the show?”

“Oh fuck yes,” Michael says, immediately and truthfully, and James laughs. And then pulls off the final flimsy cotton shield, and then undoes his belt and performs a complicated little hip-wiggle that sends his jeans and boxers sliding cooperatively to the floor.

Michael’s completely wordless. He’d been expecting the shirtlessness; one step at a time, perhaps. But this…

James is the bravest person he’s ever known.

“James,” he starts, meaning to say so; James blushes--visibly, head to toe--and says, “We did say naked, you wanted to see me, this is me,” and then looks at the corner of the bed, a pillowcase, a sheet-wrinkle, as if he can’t quite bring himself to know what expression might be on Michael’s face.

That expression’s probably all open-mouthed helpless reverence. James naked is purely lovely. Michael can’t even think. Might be drooling. Likely not literally, but metaphorically, entirely so.

James is made of fairytale-white skin and nutmeg-sugar freckles, a star-map in reverse, vibrant ginger sparkles pinwheeling across flawless new canvas. A study in contrasts, exotic and pale, maybe a shade or two darker along arms and face where sunlight constantly rests; but James doesn’t tan, only gets extra freckles, so the gradient’s all but non-existent. And everywhere else, that flat stomach and those muscular thighs and the tantalizing curves of his hips…

All that skin is a bewitching invitation to touch, a glorious paradox of innocent fairness and wicked spice. Michael wants to lick him everywhere, and that’s not at all a new sensation, but it _feels_ new. It all feels new. James has given him this.

Objectively speaking, James might-- _might_ \--have a bit of a point about lighting and problematic skin. Michael tries extremely hard to consider this professionally for at least ten seconds. James won’t believe instant assurances of perfection, and it is true that from a camera-based standpoint James might be more complicated than average. But that doesn’t mean that James isn’t splendid, isn’t worth the minor amount of extra effort that might be needed, isn’t gorgeous.

And has carried on not quite looking at him. Michael gets up from the bed. Holds out both hands. James looks at them instead of the pillowcase corner, which is an improvement, and rests his fingers lightly on top. Michael curls his own longer fingers around the familiar touch, lifts James’s left hand, kisses the back of it: knight to liege lord. “I love you. Can I touch you?”

James swallows, blinks, lifts his gaze. Meets Michael’s eyes. Nods.

So Michael does. Slowly, at first. No demands. No pressure. Only awed exploration. Fingertips skimming the line of a forearm, tracing constellations over his collarbone. Lower, and James makes a small incredulous sound, and Michael says, “You said you’d listen, and I’m saying you’re beautiful,” which makes James blush all over again, and Michael delights in the way he can see the emotion rising under that candid skin. James doesn’t say the _I’m not_ aloud, which is a step, if a small one; he’s plainly still thinking it, but Michael means the words, and knows that James knows that, at least.

He wants to kiss James for that. For being willing to listen. So he does.

James actually makes a sound Michael’s never heard before, a kind of tiny shocked gasp, when Michael’s lips find his throat, his shoulder, that collarbone. Michael pauses, grins, teeth making his point into James’s skin. James breathes his name; Michael promptly drops to both knees and kisses his stomach, his hip, the beckoning sensitive crease at the top of a thigh. He doesn’t kiss James’s cock, though he’s tempted and James is half-hard already. Not about that. Not now.

“Come up here.” James sounds a bit shaky; well, fair enough, Michael is too, so he gets back to his feet and puts both arms around all the freckles and lets James lean into his chest for a while. Eventually, he offers, “I could help you. For tonight. If you want.”

James draws in a sharp, audible breath. But he lets it out quietly, a long, slow gust of warmth over Michael's skin, and lifts his head from Michael's chest. There are layers to his gaze that Michael doesn't understand, and he wants to sift carefully through each until he does, hidden truths brought to the surface reverently, safely in his hands. Instead he waits, his own breath held, to see what James wants to say.

But it's actions, first: James breaks away to grab the bottle, lying abandoned on the bed, and press it into Michael's hands. He’s still in motion when he says the words: "I do. Want that. Thank you."

There's a hint of apology there. Michael doesn't think he's imagining it. He bends his head, hands squeezing James', squeezing the slim plastic bottle between them, to kiss it away.

He must do a fairly decent job of it, because when James pulls back, he summons up a grin that's almost truly cheeky - only an expert in James would be able to tell the difference, recognise the whisper of uncertainty in the bright corners of that smile, but an expert is exactly what Michael’s trying to become. James says, "How do you want me? On my back, first? Or front?"

"Now?" Michael lifts his eyes to the bedside clock. "Oh, yeah, suppose so, if we're going to have you on set on time... Front."

An arbitrary choice, or at least he thinks so to begin with, until James is sprawled on his stomach on the messy sheets and Michael is kneeling at his side, uncapping the bottle. All that beautiful pale skin spread out before him, and he's charged with hiding it away; Michael knows his reluctance is showing on his face, he can feel his brows knitting together and the flat unhappy line of his mouth, and he thanks God that James can't see it.

Whatever James wants, whatever James needs, he has Michael's support. He should never think otherwise. Not even for a moment.

“Here, have this." Michael drags over a soft pillow for James’ head. Physical comfort isn't going to banish the insecurities that must be lingering for James, laid out on display like this, but James deserves to feel good in every way that he can. “How's that? Comfortable?”

He looks it. More than that, he looks _delicious._

“Very,” James says, voice half-muffled by the pillow. “Oh, but - there’s a pair of latex gloves in my shaving kit. If you want to keep your hands from going orange. Let me just -”

“No.” Michael presses a hand to James’ shoulder blade, keeping him in place. “I don’t have to be on camera for a few weeks yet, sure. It’ll be fine. Don’t want ‘em, anyway.”

He wants to feel James. Every inch.

But he does rise from the bed just for a moment, to nudge up the thermostat before James can begin missing his sweater too keenly. Then he ducks in the loo long enough to grab a towel off the rack, just in case he gets a little sloppy with the tanning lotion.

Settling back at James’ side, Michael pours lotion into his palm and holds it there, hoping it'll warm up, while James gives directions. "Small circles," he says. "Like you're waxing your bike, yeah?"

"Tell me if this is cold," Michael says, and James tenses as Michael's palm settles against his skin, then relaxes.

"Only a little."

"Good."

He starts high on James' back, rubbing slowly, strong bone and firm muscle under his hands, all that power desperately alluring beneath soft, delicate skin. Michael loves James' back. He loves it in thick jumpers, or thin t-shirts, or bare and beautiful as it is now, and Michael swallows against the lingering dislike of making it less _real_ by thinking of the lotion as James' armour, of himself layering it on carefully before battle, where it must not fail.

If anyone is to do this, it should be him.

Michael isn't kneeling at James' side anymore, but over his body, one knee snug against each of James' hips. It doesn’t happen consciously. But as his hands slide lower and lower down James' back, he finds he must do the same, and suddenly he's straddling James’ upper thighs, sitting flush to the curve of his arse.

This particular change in position does not go unnoticed by his cock. He inches farther back, hoping that putting some space between it and James' rear will keep it from getting any further ideas.

Small circles, still, and now Michael’s working on that gorgeous low valley between James’ shoulder blades and hips, following the delicate trail of his spine. There are fewer freckles scattered over the landscape here than high on James' shoulders, but they’re every bit as lovely, and dulling their amber gold beauty with the artificiality of tanning lotion feels like a crime. Michael closes his eyes. For a moment he just lets himself feel his hands at work, their deliberate journey over James' body, down, down, to where James' waist narrows just above the gentle flare of his hips.

Michael shifts. He hates getting hard in these jeans, so he does. There's not enough _space_ , his cock is lying along his thigh, swelling and pressing tight against the denim in a way that's bloody uncomfortable and getting more so with every moment. Michael can't do a damn thing about it. He’d have orange jeans and boxers and an orange cock if he went diving below his waist with this lotion on his hands. Worse - even with his eyes closed and his head turned to the side, James would know. The hitch and rustle of parts being adjusted is something every man can identify with considerable accuracy, and Michael doesn’t want James worrying himself about Michael's needs right now. Michael’s got a job to do, and it’s not even half done.

A breath in. A breath out. Michael knee-walks his way down James' body to lay hands on his ankles instead of his arse.

It doesn't really help.

Of course it's no way to starve an erection. Michael’s is just as keenly interested in James' legs, the strong, firm rise of his calves, the delicate hollows behind his knees, and his thighs - _Jesus_ , those thighs, strong and supple and perfectly curved, slightly open and waiting for his touch.

James makes no comment on Michael's sudden change in position. He's been quiet since they began, and Michael wants to believe it's a good sign: James isn't trying to use jokes or conversation to distract Michael from the body beneath his hands, the skin beneath his gaze. Hopefully it's because he's found a measure of comfort. Hopefully it's not an exercise in sheer bloody will.

Michael works his way up James' legs slowly, pausing now and then to pour more lotion when he needs it. James' muscles are tight under his palms, and he rubs harder, more deeply, trying to loosen James up. He looks up, casting a glance at James' face, nestled into the pillow, and -

Oh. His eyes aren't just closed, they're squeezed shut. His left hand is clenching the edge of the pillow. And when Michael stills his hands on James' calves, he can see the fine tremors running through the muscles of James' thighs and arse. James _must_ be hard. Hard, and desperate to hold still, his cock trapped between his stomach and the sheets, the gentle push of Michael's hands slow rocking him into desire.

Michael freezes, heartbeat pounding between his legs. If it's not just him - if it's James too - Michael cants his hips forward, bearing down lightly on James' thigh. Whispers, "If I keep going, can you hold on?"

He only means to let James know that he isn't alone, let him feel that Michael's affected as well. He doesn't mean to make James whimper, but James does, the sound that comes from him high and soft and right on the verge of a sob, and he clutches the pillow even more tightly before forcibly relaxing. "Yeah," James says, throaty. "Yeah."

A kiss is the proper response to that, dropped softly to the crown of James’ head. Then it’s back to work, rubbing James' upper thighs. Michael's throbbing - his cock felt that brief moment of pressure and fucking liked it - and now that he's actively deciding what he's going to do and how he's going to do it, it's swelling so hard in his jeans he's going light-headed.

Up. Up. As his hands slip higher, Michael rocks forward on his knees, hips making useless little thrusts into the air. There’s no bearing down on James again, no relief, not while the lotion’s drying. But if James can hold on, Michael damn well can do the same. Even while he’s kneading that perfect round arse. Even -

James makes a sound that, even half-stifled by the pillow, causes Michael to bite his lip hard enough to sting.

“Okay,” Michael says, swallowing. “Okay, I think - back's done.” He slithers off James, gets to his feet. “Stand up?”

James is careful, pushing his way back along the bed until his knees are over the edge, keeping his just-oiled skin away from the sheets. When he turns around, Michael gets his first good look at James’ cock, jutting out flushed and curved. He doesn't think. Just palms James' hips and reels him in, hearing himself groan at the first press of that hardness against his groin.

For a moment they simply breathe, locked in place, Michael swollen in his jeans and James naked and free. Michael's cock is twitching, tiny eager flutters, and James suddenly jerks back, grabbing his cock and holding the head firmly away from himself.

There's a shiny smear on his stomach. Michael can't look away. He’d wanted to lick James before, and that desire’s suddenly back full-force.

“Small problem,” James says. “I can’t take a shower. This stuff has to dry fuckin’ hours.”

Michael shakes his head. “You won't need to. Don't worry. Just -” With shaky fingers, using his left hand because it's only got a few stray orange smudges on it, unlike his right, Michael works his wallet out of his back pocket. He’s prepared. He and James have both been too busy for check-ups in the few weeks they’ve been together, and it doesn’t matter how healthy they think they are. Neither is willing to risk the other. Condom between his fingers, Michael tosses the wallet onto the bed. “See?” He kisses James, hand coming to rest above James' curled fingers. “I'll keep you clean, baby.”

 _Discoveries,_ Michael thinks, hearing that final word fall from his lips. He’s never been a man who spoke easily in endearments. But apparently with James, he is.

James’ quietly wondering smile, the flush that blooms high on his cheeks - these too are discoveries, ones Michael intends to treasure. He kisses that smile, long and lingering.

When Michael drops to his knees, James lets out a shaky sigh. Giving into that desire, that _need_ to lick James, Michael cleans his stomach with slow laps of his tongue before taking the tip of his cock in his mouth for one sweet suck. With James bracing himself against Michael’s shoulder, watching intently, Michael rolls the condom gently down.

“There,” he says, cupping James in his palm, just holding him. “You're ready. Or -”

“Or?”

Michael touches a fingertip to James’ cockhead, deliberately lightly. “Or. Sometimes I like to see how long I can stay hard. Do you?”

“You would,” James says, on a shaky laugh. “Yeah, sure. Not sayin’ I'm any fuckin’ good at it, though.” His lips quirk, deliciously wicked. “Suppose that means I need the practise.”

Excitement rushes through Michael, leaving warmth in its wake, and he smiles, helplessly foolish. The thrill of doing something new together, with each other, for each other… succeed or fail, the thread between them will be knotted just that little bit tighter, the binding private and dear.

Taking James’ hand, he guides him to make a loose fist at the base of his cock. James glances at his hand, then at Michael, lighting up with an impish grin. “Right. Any tips?”

"Slow hands. Whatever you do with them, slow hands." He pauses. "Slow breath."

"Be the fuckin' tortoise. Got it." Michael watches, mesmerised, while James gives himself one leisurely pump. "Win the race."  
Michael kisses James' hip for that, because his lips are too far away to reach.

And Michael still has to cover that beautiful pale hip up. The lotion is lying near the edge of the bed, and he leans forward to grab it, wincing as his cock digs painfully into his jeans.

James notices. That's something Michael's been learning about James, along with the taste of his skin and the particular arch of his back when he comes: James always notices. If something’s not quite working, if Michael's foot’s cramping, if the angle’s wrong, if he’s trying not to sneeze, James knows. “Stand up for a second? Let me help.”

Michael scrambles to his feet, even while saying, "I don't want -"

"No, I know," James says, reaching for the button on Michael's jeans. "Only thinking to make you a little more comfortable, that's all."

The downward glide of the zip is a relief with the pressure it eases, but then James is dipping into his boxers and gripping his cock, and Michael's choking on air. James is careful as he pulls him up and out through the slit in his boxers, slipping his jeans down his arse a little to give more room for purchase.

"Better?"

The way he's fattening in James' hand is as good an answer as any. James' fingers are warm and the air of the room is cool and light, a delightful contrast. He's messy and slick at the head, too, just as James was, and Michael says, "You'd better zip me up. I'm not going to be the one who ruins my hard work, here."

“Shame.” James gives him one long stroke, holding his cock tall against his stomach. “Won’t even work, will it. Look at you.” He slides his thumb over Michael's last few inches. “You're going to pop right out the top, aren't you?”

“Straight up like that? Yeah.” Michael tries to control his breathing - _slow, take your own advice, slow_ \- while watching James' thumb continue to toy with his tip, dragging at his foreskin.

“And I suppose this t-shirt's too thin to do the job.” Pulling on the hem, James draws the shirt back against Michael’s hips, tight over his cock. A dark splotch blooms immediately on the grey fabric. “Right then. We'll just have to get the angle right.” James is gentle as he tucks Michael safely inside his boxers, then settles his jeans back properly on his hips. He draws up the zip, but only halfway, and leaves the button undone. “Little room to breathe.”

“Appreciated,” Michael says, making an effort not to rock into the weight of James’ hand, casually resting below his waist. Instead he guides James’ fingers back down to his own cock, smiling at the little hiss James makes when he grips himself again. “Okay, tortoise. Let's go.”

Back on his knees, Michael steals one last look at James like this, pale and perfect, truly, luminously himself. Then, settling a hand on James' ankle, Michael bends to his task, his forehead briefly coming to rest on James' inner thigh. James' balls are a warm, soft weight on his skin, and his knuckles drag lightly through Michael's hair with the next slow pull of his cock.

Michael tries to be as conscientious with James' front as he was with his back. To keep the application even, blend carefully where there's overlap, go lightly at the knees so that too much lotion doesn't settle into the creases, over-darkening the skin - but he has new distractions, now. When James pumps his cock, Michael knows it. Even with his eyes diligently on his work, he knows it. He doesn't have to be looking to feel the soft vibrations that run through James' thighs as he strokes himself, or hear the soft slap of skin above.

James appears to be taking Michael's advice to heart. He’s working himself lazily, hand rubbing from base to tip by slow degrees, pausing for long moments before moving glacially down. Michael’s beginning to live for the gaspy little hitch in James’ breath that says he's lingering over the head.

James sold himself short - he’s a very good tortoise. And Michael’s turning into the hare. He’s thinking about that clock, ticking away the precious minutes until James has to be on set, and becoming more and more possessive of that time by the second. He wants them to spend as much of it as possible feeling so, so good….

Top of James' thighs, right up at the crease, and Michael has to flatten his palm to slide beneath James' forearm where it crosses his body. James’ wrist knocks against Michael’s as he slides his fingers down his cock. Michael’s fingertips catch in the dark curls just below the base of the condom.

"You should see the view from here." James’ breath is coming short. "Fuckin’ - fantastic. You down there. So - focused. And your hands…."

"It can't be any better than the view I have from here," Michael says, willing James to hear how deeply he means it. He presses a soft kiss to James' stomach, still beautifully unmarked. James' torso and arms, they're all that's left that's fully _him_.... Michael rises to his feet, dropping kisses like the offerings of a reverent along the way, simply because he finds that he must.

When Michael finally lifts his head, James is watching him.

Once again, there are more layers to his gaze than Michael can fathom, and he doesn't have long to try - James tilts his head up, and captures his lips in a long, deep kiss. “So,” James says when they part. “How am I doing?”

Michael traces a finger over James’ cock. “You're a natural,” he says. “Nearly there. Oh.”

"You've had your hands full. Thought I'd help out." He's palming Michael's cock through his jeans with his other hand now, firm and sure.

"Oh, good," Michael manages. His cock _had_ been feeling a bit neglected, but now it’s leaping delightedly at the attention. And even more so when James worms his hand into Michael's boxers and strokes him at the same time, in the same way, that he strokes himself.

"Were you just planning to stand there?" James inquires, hand still busy below Michael's waist.

"You're awfully impatient for a tortoise." Breathe. Don't think about what he's doing with his hand. Don't mourn each disappearing inch of his skin as you hide it away. Place the armour, and place it well. Here is where it has to be its best.

The trouble is, James is distracting as fuck. He's not jerking Michael's cock and he's not setting any kind of rhythm - he's _exploring,_ mapping Michael with the pads of his fingers, and Michael is growing deliriously close to begging to be conquered.

Job to do. Shoulders. Chest. Down.

Michael only rubs lightly over James' left nipple, but even that's enough to make James shiver prettily with his whole body. He passes his fingers over the right nipple in just the same way because the task demands it, but then he rubs them both again because, because -

James' hips jerk, his fingers tighten around Michael's cock, and Michael’s crashing into his mouth, biting at that red bottom lip before he's half aware he’s doing it.

The soft, needy noise James makes snaps him out of it. “Okay, new proposal,” Michael says, dropping his forehead to James'. His own breathing, harsh and shallow, suddenly seems like the loudest thing in the room. “You - hands by your sides. While I finish.”

“Deal,” James says, and gives their cocks a friendly tug for the road.

Michael’s quick, but he's still bloody thorough, and he'd challenge anyone to do a better job under the circumstances: pulse thrumming with want, hands shaking, the skin beneath them trembling with James' efforts to hold still. He ends low on James’ stomach, gliding his palms out to his hips, wanting to curl his fingers around those curves and _squeeze_ , but not quite daring. Too much lotion on his hands. Can't risk wrecking the job. "Now," he whispers, and James surges up to kiss him, deep and filthy, tongue stroking heavily over Michael's, hands firm on his cheeks. The head of James' cock bobs against Michael's stomach; every bit of Michael is dying to close the tiny gap between them, to press hard against James, to _rut_.

It's a massive effort, but he breaks away instead, and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, legs splayed wide. He wipes his hands on the towel lying twisted on the sheets before patting his lap in invitation. "Come here."

"I don't know," James says, peering back over his shoulder. There's half a tease in his voice, half genuine question. "Am I dry enough?"

Leaning forward, Michael skims his fingertips down James' spine. "Yeah you are," he says, grabbing James' hip, reeling him in. "You're perfect."

James' arse settles warmly between his thighs, and Michael's rocking up into that perfect shape before he even gets a grip on James' cock. There's no helping it. He's not ashamed.

"Were you wanting something like this?" James murmurs, rubbing back against Michael slowly, side-to-side.

"Fuck, just like - _fuck_ ,” Michael gets out, snapping his hips up, chasing that friction. He clutches the sheets with his left hand, and James is fat and hard in his right. Michael resents the condom - it's necessary, it's allowing them to do this, but robs him of the smoothness of James' skin, of the heat.

But he can't bring himself to mind the jeans he's still wearing. If he were slick and free and sliding through the narrow valley between James' cheeks, he’d last no time at all, turned on as he is. It’s better this way.

Michael strokes James’ cock once, just to test how close he is. Conclusion: very, based on the way James drops his chin to his chest and groans, deep and shocked like he’s been punched.

James is going to come in his hand. Michael is going to come in his jeans. It’s going to happen soon.

Feet planted firmly on the floor for leverage, Michael works his hips up in time with the steady jerks he’s giving James’ cock. James grinds back against him, hands sliding along Michael’s thighs until he suddenly grips hard, thumbs digging into muscle. The constant, firm rub of James’ arse over his cock is driving Michael higher and higher, and James is pulling in wet, hopeless breaths whenever Michael’s grip twists over his head, as close to sobbing as Michael’s ever heard him.

Suddenly James turns his head, stretching back for a kiss, and it’s sloppy and shallow - the angle’s terrible - but Michael holds on as long as he can, just breathing against James’ lips, the connection too dear to lose. But then James stiffens, and Michael knows what that means: it’s time to push him over the edge, so he mouths along to James’ ear and tongues gently at the lobe, feeling a rush of joy and love when James’ spine curves into that gorgeous arc as he comes.

It's gorgeous, too, when James sags against him a few moments later. Michael stays busy, carefully slipping the condom off James and tying it up, then gently wiping his softening cock with the towel. James is warm and loose and heavy all down his front, and Michael kisses the nape of his neck, closing his eyes as he buries his nose in James' hair.

But James makes a fretful sound, and turns in Michael’s lap to work his hand into Michael’s jeans. Michael drops his head down, watching James’ fist move inside his boxers, and gives himself over to that strong, steady grip. Michael’s ready. Ready. His world has narrowed down to the glide of James’ hand, the rustle of fabric, the slick sound when James crests over the head. Oh. He bucks when James presses the slit with his thumb, but then James slides his hand down low. Michael’s fingers twist the sheets. If James does that again, he’s done. If James--

Michael’s whole body jerks at James’ touch, at James’ command, and he’s coming in a hot rush inside his clothes, shuddering hard.

The world doesn’t flood back in immediately, but it does expand: he can feel each ragged inhale inside his lungs, the warm wet disaster they’ve made of his jeans, the perfect weight of James balanced awkwardly on his thighs. James’ hair’s curling upwards with satisfied heat and a hint of sweat; the air’s scented with artificial sun-kisses and release. So many details, each one bright and clear and etched into memory like the lines of a photograph; better, though. This won’t yield to the sepia-hued wrinkles of time. Never.

James puts his head, very carefully, on Michael’s shoulder. Michael folds arms around him--James fits so perfectly, so flawlessly, into the circle of long limbs, and his heart nearly breaks at the realization, all over again, that he gets to have this--and thinks that he probably ought to talk, but can’t come up with any good words.

Instead he just breathes. All the details. All the senses. The whisper of James’ hair against the corner of his mouth. The hush of the room.

It’s James who ends up finding words first. Of course it is.

“You’re going to have orange all over those jeans, y’know…”

But the words aren’t regretful or self-deprecating, only a half-amused and somewhat lazy observation. Michael, heart caught between mending itself and breaking more, answers the same way. “They’re old, and I don’t care. And you sort of have orange all over you, and I love you.”

And then he stops, because that might’ve been too much too soon, if James can’t laugh about this, not yet--

“So I do.” James considers his own skin: the now-darker muscles of an arm, the line of his calf, the contrast with Michael’s clothed form. Michael can’t quite read the tone, but James hasn’t moved, every inch of him radiating drowsy contentment; that’s got to be promising, doesn’t it?

“...you did that,” James adds, and there’s something new in that tone, something more like awe. “For me. You - I know what you were thinking. And you did it anyway. For me.”

“I love you,” Michael says again, because that’s important, because that’s _why_. “You know what I think, yeah. You always do. I’m not going to give you the speech about being mutant and proud.” This gets James to laugh, brief and a little uneven. Michael feels the laugh where their bodies’re pressed together; feels the matching swell of warmth in his own chest. “I’m not you. I can’t tell you how to feel about this. I do want you to feel comfortable. You are sort of unbelievably beautiful, you know, and I’ll tell you that every day if you want, but if you feel more comfortable using that--” A nod back toward the bed, the abandoned black-and-white bottle lying amid messy sheets. “--then I’m here for that too. Whatever you need, y’know?”

"You," James says, "I love you," shaking his head as he stretches up for a kiss, sweet and lingering. There's awe and gratitude and the whisper of an apology in it; Michael knows it will end with James saying the thank you, and he wills his kiss to say _it's okay, it's okay,_ in reply. He does mean it. Every word he’s just said. He’s not James, and he can’t magically fix this, and James doesn’t need fixing - James has worked this out for himself, solutions and a way to accept himself in a mirror. Michael might see him in a way James will never see himself, but that _will_ be okay. They’ll be okay. In the ebbing afterglow of shared orgasm, with the promise of those lips touching his, he knows they will.

James stops kissing him. Puts that head on one side. His hair’s standing up in fantastical gravity-defying loops; the hair and make-up department’s going to have a time taming that. Michael adores him. “So,” James says, Scottish burr shaping all the syllables into burnished gold. “I might need you to keep helping. Just like that. Y’know. Through this film.”

“I--yes. Of course. I can do that.” He can. He can handle that. They can handle this. No regrets. None allowed. Not in the wake of everything they’ve just found.

“I said _this_ film.” James worries his lower lip between teeth, releases it. “I can’t...can’t do that to the make-up artists halfway through, right? They’d have collective heart attacks. Probably threaten me and you with pitchforks. And I’m not saying I can get used to it all at once. To me, all at once.”

“You...sorry, what are we talking about?” He has an idea. Can’t be right. Not that idea.

James meets his eyes. The endless blue’s scared and hopeful and determined and loving and wry and above all honest, each emotion laid bare for Michael to see and protect. “This bottle’s just about enough to get through filming, I think. And there’s one more in my flat. But there’s not one at your flat yet, and I was thinking...maybe I never bother hiding one under my clothes in that drawer, next time I come over. Maybe I don’t buy another one, after these run out. Maybe I don’t use it, maybe I let it fade, when I come home to you.”

“...yes,” Michael says, after a second during which he’s astounded and in love, so very very in love, and he leans forward to kiss that lower lip, the same spot newly-nibbled by James’ teeth. That’s a yes as well. “I love you, James. Yes.”

“And, you know,” James says, magically managing to talk while being kissed, “I am. Always--”

“--coming home to you,” Michael says at the same time, so the words come out together. The two of them, coming together; James laughs, and Michael doesn’t laugh aloud but has to smile, arms around the solid weight of James in his lap, heart caught up in the sound.


End file.
